"O, sir," cried poor Prudence, "you are a great man, and can do whatever you please. If you speak to the Governor again, he will let Philip out. I am sure he meant nothing wrong. I am certain they told wicked lies about him."

"Truly will I remonstrate again," said Spikeman. "So great is my regard for thee, I will risk losing his favor for thy sake. But for all the sacrifices I make, what shall be thy return to me?"

"I will pray night and day for you; I will be your slave; I will worship the ground on which you tread."

"Sweet maiden," said Spikeman, passing his arm around her waist, "I ask not so much. I ask thee only to be happy with me. Thy prayers, though rising like morning incense, I need not. I would rather be thy slave than have thee mine, and I worship thee already. Turn not away thy cheek, but let me greet thee with the kiss of charity."

The girl averted not her glowing cheek, whereon, with these words, he imprinted a passionate kiss, which he attempted to repeat, but Prudence drew a little back, and removed his arm. His lips burned like fire. She felt as if they had left behind a mark to betray her, and she shuddered with aversion; but she believed the fate of the soldier to be in his hands, and dared not to offend him. Besides, she was no delicate lady, but strong and full of confidence, and feared no danger to herself. As she marked his heightened color and kindling eyes, and he made another attempt to salute her, she said, with half a disposition to cry and half to laugh:

"Is not kissing and toying forbid by the elders and worshipful magistrates?"

"They are forbid to them outside of the congregation, and who have no Christian liberty," answered Spikeman—"to them who make a display of what should be concealed, to avoid the scandal of the wicked; but not to the elect and discreet, who can use their liberty as not abusing it. Therefore, let me kiss thee with the kisses of my mouth, for thy love is better than wine. Behold, thou art fair, my love; behold, thou art fair," he continued, pressing upon her; "thou hast dove's eyes within thy locks. Thy lips are like a thread of scarlet."

"Hark!" cried Prudence, pushing him back, "I hear a noise." "I hear no sound," said Spikeman, after listening for a moment, "save the voice of my beloved. O, speak, and say unto me, 'rise up, my love, and come away, for lo, the winter is past, the rain is over and gone, the time of the singing of birds is come, and the voice of the turtle is heard in our land,'"

So saying, he caught her in his arms, and giving license to his fiery passions, stamped repeated kisses upon her lips and bosom, in spite of her struggles. But the sounds which the quick ears of Prudence had detected became more and more distinct, and persons on foot and on horseback were seen in the street returning from the lecture. Without difficulty she broke from the now yielding arms of Spikeman, and had just time to compose her disordered hair and tunic, when the voice of the dame at the door was heard demanding admission.



CHAPTER IV.

"Oh, give me liberty! For were even Paradise my prison, Still I should long to leap the crystal walls."

DRYDEN.

The motives which animated Spikeman to play the part which he did in the court that condemned the soldier, will now be better understood. He had cast eyes of licentious desire upon the blooming Prudence, who was, at the same time, beloved by Philip, and was solicitous to remove him out of the way. Bold in all his plans, neither honoring God nor fearing man, unscrupulous in regard to the means, to effect a purpose, and esteeming the gratification of his evil wishes the highest happiness, it was yet necessary to the achievement of his objects that a specious outside at least should be preserved, and this he had succeeded in doing up to the present time. In pursuance of his cunning policy, he was unwilling that even Joy should suspect him of unfriendliness, and for that reason had, in the course of the examination, excited the temporary vexation of Deputy Governor Dudley, by an observation which, to the unsuspecting Deputy, seemed indicative of a desire to screen Joy from punishment, and to Joy himself the interference of a friend; while, in fact, it was intended to entrap the prisoner into rash speeches, which would be prejudicial to his cause. How effectually he undeceived Dudley, after Joy had been removed, we have seen.

The Assistant had attained his object. Philip was in the first place to be imprisoned and fined, and afterwards banished, and the field was henceforth to be left free to himself. With his rival out of the way, he did not doubt of succeeding with the girl by means of such arguments and temptations as it would be in his power to employ. How he had begun by endeavoring to use the very affection of Prudence for her lover to make her betray herself, has been told; but thus far her simplicity and good fortune had been quite a match for his craft. In the hope to obtain some advantage for Philip, she had granted the Assistant the interview which we have just witnessed, and wherein he disclosed his character in a manner he had never done to her before. She now understood his designs thoroughly, but the knowledge was a secret which her fears suggested that she had better lock up in her own heart. What chance would a poor unprotected girl have in a contest with the rich and powerful Assistant? Who would take her word in opposition to his? Spikeman well appreciated his advantage, and calculating with absolute certainty upon her silence, was, in consequence, the more audacious.

When the spy of the Assistant found him at his store-house, he was meditating upon the approaching interview with Prudence, the contemplation of which it unpleasantly interrupted. The prospect of the soldier's liberation was exceeding disagreeable. It would interfere with, and perhaps defeat plans, which in blind passion he hugged to his heart. But engrossed by his unworthy madness, he could not then mature any scheme not connected with its immediate gratification. Machinations for the further accomplishment of his designs must be postponed for a calmer moment. It came after the interruption occasioned by the arrival of his wife, and soon his active brain had shaped his ideas into definiteness.

Accordingly in the evening, as soon as it became so dark that features were not readily distinguishable in the streets, the Assistant took his way to the prison in which the soldier was confined. It stood on the edge of the settlement, and was a low, one-story building, strongly made of unhewn logs, within a few feet of which was the dwelling of the jailer, but little differing from it in exterior. In those days a very strong jail was not so important as at present. If one had committed a crime so heinous that he was unfit to live, he was forthwith put beyond the power of doing mischief; but if the offence were of a less atrocious character, modes of punishment were usually resorted to which did not involve the necessity of supporting him at public charge—such, for instance, as whipping, cutting off the ears, slitting the nose, and like improvements of the human form divine. If through defect of the prison, or from any other cause, the offender escaped, it was pretty certain that he would not make his appearance in a hurry, lest some worse thing might befall him, and so there was one malcontent the less, and one disturber of the peace gone, even though the ends of punishment were not perfectly attained.

Spikeman, on reaching the house of the jailer, was about to knock at the door, when his attention was arrested by sounds which made him pause. The weather being warm, the window was open, and he was able to hear distinctly what was said within. Motives of delicacy or honor weighed not much in the mind of a man like him, and he scrupled not to appropriate any advantage to be derived from eaves-dropping.

"What made you, Sam Bars, take all the ornaments off Philip but the bracelets, without saying anything to me?" inquired a voice, which Spikeman recognized as belonging to the jailer's wife.

"Why, Margery, to confess, I forgot to tell you," answered her husband; "but," added he, laughing, "I had no fear on thy account, for thou art a match for a man any day."

"When I took him in his supper," said the woman, "there was poor Philip rubbing his ankles to get the swelling out. Truly I pitied him, for he is a proper young man."

"Oh! goody, the women always pity proper young men. I warrant me now if it had been a grizzled old wolf like me, you would not have thought so much of his ankles."

"Say not so, Sam," replied the woman, affectionately, "nor liken thyself to a wolf. O, how they used to howl every night when we first came to this wilderness; but the Lord protected his people. I dare say now, it was thy kind heart made thee take off the irons."

"That it was not, wife. They were put on by order of one I am bound to obey; nor durst I take them off but by command of a higher authority."

"Why do you talk as though you were giving me riddles to guess? Am I not bone of thy bone?"

"A big heap of bones we make together," muttered Sam, glancing at the large frame of his wife, not much excelled by his own, "but she's a good soul, amiss only in her tongue at whiles; howbeit, saith not Paul, it is an unruly member? Well, Margery, an thou must know, it was by order of the Governor's own mouth to me they were taken off, and what is more, I am to let Philip go free in the morning."

"Bless his sweet face," cried the woman, "I always said the worshipful Governor was the sweetest; and virtuousest and excellentest man in the whole country."

"There be them among the elders and magistrates who be of a different opinion. Beshrew me! (may the Lord forgive me," he added, looking round in alarm. "I hope no one hears me,) but, according to my thinking, it is only because Master Winthrop asks for no pay, and spends so much out of his own purse for other folk, that they choose him Governor."

"What can anybody have against so sweet-tempered and liberal a gentleman?" inquired Margery.

"Well, then, the elders complain that he is not so zealous, even unto slaying, as becomes a leader of the Lord's host, which he is, like Moses and Joshua; and some of the deputies pretend that he takes too much state on him, and means to make himself a king, or least-wise, a lord."

"And I trow, good man, I know no reason why, when the Commonwealth, as they call it, gets big enough, we should not have a king as well as the folk on the other side of the water. It was always a pleasure to see his Majesty in the streets of London, with the grand lords and ladies all in their silks and satins, and jewels and feathers. It will be long, I am afraid," sighed the good woman, "before we shall see such fine sights in these woods."

"Hush, goody," said Sam, "take care your tongue do not get you into trouble. Speak lower, an you will talk about things you know nothing about. You love kings and lords better than some folk," he concluded, with a laugh.

"Take care of your own tongue, Sam Bars; I warrant you mine will take care of itself. But wherefore should I not love the king? Is it not written—touch not mine anointed, and do my prophets no harm? And I will let you know, Sam Bars? that I will say what I please about him, God bless him! Marry, come up, a fine time of day truly, if a woman may not speak her mind! I should like to see the man or woman either, forsooth, to stop me. My tongue and ten commandments (stretching out her fingers) know how to take care of one another, I can tell you. My tongue get me into trouble! O, Sam, why do you aggravate me so? Me, the quietest and peaceablest and silentest wife in the world! Why dost not speak? Art as dumb as the bench your heavy carcass almost breaks down? Speak, I say, Sam, speak, or I shall go crazy."

But her husband, whom long experience had taught the best mode of weathering such storms, only shook his head in silence, until the good woman, after a variety of ejaculations and expletives, finding that she made no more impression on him than children's pop-guns on a sand-bank, concluded to cool down, when she asked what the Governor said to him.

Sam, glad that the current had taken another direction, answered readily "a mountain of questions about Philip. And he wanted to know why I put so many irons on him—how he found it out, the Lord only knows, unless"—here Bars sunk his voice, so that the words were inaudible to the listener, and he lost a sentence or two—"and when he dismissed me, he ordered that I should never do it again without his consent, and then sent me into the kitchen, where I had a pottle of sack."

"A whole pottle of sack!" exclaimed his wife, in a tone of disappointment; "and here was I at home, as dry in this outlandish hot weather as the children of Israel at Rephidim, when they did chide Moses because there was no water to drink." "You might have brought your own Margery a taste," she added, reproachfully.

"Did I say I had a whole pottle? If I did, I spoke only in a figure, as one may say; for there was Ephraim Pike to help me make away with it, and you know his gullet is like a London sewer. Love your bright eyes, Margery, a quart of sack stands no more chance with Ephraim, when his nose once gets scent of the liquor, or his lips touch the edge of the mug, than a mouse among a dozen cats."

"Or than it has with you, Sam. But men be all alike; they be always guzzling; they never think of their poor wives. Here am I, Margery Bars, thine own help-meet, never away from home; never running about streets and going to Governor's houses to swill sack; never"—but here the voice of the discontented woman, who, in her excitement, had risen from her seat and walked away, was lost in the pantry, or rather subdued into an inarticulate grumble; and Spikeman, after waiting awhile, and finding it improbable that the conversation would be resumed, knocked in a peculiar manner on the door, which was almost immediately opened by Bars himself.

"Hath the order for the soldier's release arrived from the Governor?" inquired the Assistant.

"It hath, worshipful sir; he is to be dismissed in the morning," answer the jailer.

"Hast said anything about it to Joy, as I requested thee not?"

"He knows no more concerning it than the logs of his dungeon," said Bars.

"Then get the keys, and means to strike a light."

Without replying, as one accustomed to obey such orders, the jailer provided himself in a few moments with the articles required. He placed an unlighted candle in the lantern, and the two proceeded to the door of the jail.

"He is your only prisoner, I believe?" said Spikeman.

"None other," answered Bars.

"Remain outside by the door. I would speak a moment with him."

The jailer, in silence, put one key into the lock and opened the door, and gave another to Spikeman, and then stationed himself as directed, outside.

Spikeman entered, and closed the door after him; then striking a light, advanced like one well acquainted with the place. The space wherein he found himself was an entry or passage-way, some four feet wide, running along the four sides of the prison, and enclosing the cells in the middle, The security of the prisoners was greatly promoted by this arrangement, two walls being necessary to be broken in order to effect escape, and communication with persons without being thus made more difficult.

The Assistant advanced, until he came to the door of a cell which was closed, and which he knew from that circumstance was occupied, and unlocking it, stepped within. He stopped, and throwing around the light from the lantern, beheld the form of the soldier extended on some straw spread in a corner, and apparently asleep. Philip was indeed in a profound slumber. Relieved from the painful incumbrance of the irons which had prevented his lying down, and kept him consequently in a constrained posture, he was enjoying a luxury hard to be realized except by one in a condition as wretched as his own. Spikeman threw the light full upon his face, but it failed to awaken him. He only smiled, and muttering something indistinctly, turned upon his pallet, the irons on his wrists clanking as he moved. The Assistant stood looking at him awhile, and then pronounced his name, at first in a low tone, and afterwards louder. Even this did not banish sleep, and Spikeman was obliged to shake him by the shoulder before he could be aroused. It was then the soldier, without opening his eyes, demanded, drowsily, what was the matter. "You waked me, Bars," he said, "from such a grand dream. I wish you would let me alone."

"Arouse thyself and look up," said the Assistant. "It is not the jailer, but a friend, who desires thy good."

"It is Master Spikeman," said the soldier, sitting up and rubbing his eyes, "but I wish you had not disturbed my dream. I thought I was free again."

"I came to restore to thee that liberty whereof thou wert only dreaming."

The soldier, now thoroughly awake, got upon his feet as quickly as his swollen ankles and the manacles on his wrists would permit.

"Then," said Philip, "all the world hath not deserted me."

"Strange that such a thought could enter thy mind. Who was it, at thy trial, when the fierce Dudley would have silenced thee, demanded that thou shouldst be heard? To whom thinkest thou is owing thy release from thy heaviest chains?"

"I was blind," said the soldier, apologetically, "and this weary prison must have weakened my brain. But you came to free me. Let us leave this dismal place."

"I wish it were possible to take thee with me, but that cannot be. Yet will I so order things that thou mayest be far away and in safety before the dawn."

"Show me the way; undo these handcuffs, and I will be your bondman forever. But wherefore," inquired Joy, as if some sudden suspicion sprung up in his mind, "do you take this trouble and risk on my account?"

"Do I not know that the villains, thine accusers, lied? Should I not feel an interest in a brave man unjustly condemned by the artful Winthrop? Have no suspicion of me, Philip," said Spikeman, in a tone as if he were grieved at the thought.

"I entreat your pardon, and will allow of none," answered the soldier, and his frank face abundantly confirmed the truth of his declaration. "But how am I to escape?"

"I have considered many plans," replied Spikeman, "but only one doth seem capable of execution. Yet I fear me much thy courage will fail, even when thou hast but to extend thy hand to grasp thy freedom. The thing is not unattended with peril."

"Doubt not my courage, nor talk of peril to a man confined in a place like this, when the chance of freeing himself is offered. Try me, and see whether heart or hand fail."

"These are brave words, Philip, yet have I seen them who talked as boldly, and yet flinched at the decisive moment."

"Who ever dared to call Philip Joy a coward?" cried the soldier, impatiently. "Methinks it is so long since I struck a blow worthy of a man, that I long to be doing, if only to keep my hand in practice."

"Then listen," said Spikeman, lowering his voice, and supposing that he had got the soldier sufficiently worked up and committed by his language. "With this key"—taking one from his pocket—"will I unfasten thy manacles, and under pretext of unwittingly leaving open the door of thy cell, direct the jailer to enter and lock it, when thou, being a strong and active man, may, on his entrance, overpower him, and grant thyself free passage, and with five minutes' start, who is there could find thee in the woods?"

But Joy hesitated. "Liberty is sweet," he said, "yet would I be loth to do aught to harm Bars."

"What favor owe you him?" demanded Spikeman. "Has he not evil entreated thee, and loaded thee with unnecessary and cruel bands of iron, till compelled by me to remove them?"

"I do suppose he was acting by order of his superiors. In all other matters, Sam has been kind to me, and he did almost weep when he placed the iron bands around my body. Nay, but to lay hand on him, goes mightily against my stomach."

"Then remain to rot, if you like it better, in spite of all your boastful speeches, for the darkness and damp seem to have sucked all manhood out of thee; or shouldst thou survive a month, to have thine ears cropped and thy back scourged, and after that—"

"By all the devils in hell," interrupted Joy, "that shall never be. Unlock my irons.. I will do the part of a man."

The tempter applied the key, and unlocking the gyves, removed them, and placed them on the ground.

"They are heavy," he said. "A well-directed blow on the head would confuse a man's thoughts. It is time to depart. When thou art free, Philip, as, if possessing courage, thou art sure soon to be, forget not the friend who helped thee to thy liberty."

With these words, the Assistant took up the lantern, and leaving the door ajar as he had proposed, proceeded to the outer entrance, Here he found the jailer waiting, who, after locking up, attended him at his request a short distance on his way homeward.

"This Philip Joy," said the Assistant, as they walked together, "is a malignant and desperate villain. I did but visit him in order to get to the bottom of certain plots which I am well advised are hatching against our Commonwealth, whereunto he is privy, and which, indeed, he doth partly confess. Have thou him in strict charge, Bars. May the Lord forgive me," he cried, suddenly stopping, "if I have not, in my amazement at his venomous audacity, left open the door of his cell. Hasten, good Bars, lest by means of some confederate he escape in thine absence."

The jailer turned instantly, as Spikeman had anticipated, and rapidly retraced his steps. As for the Assistant himself, deeming his presence no longer necessary or convenient, he pursued his way, leaving further events to themselves.

When Bars returned, he found the door of the cell open. He looked in, and by the help of his lantern, seeing Joy extended on his straw, was about to close it without speaking, when the soldier called, and he stepped into the dungeon.

"Sam Bars," inquired Joy, "wherefore did you at first load me with irons, and afterwards take them off?"

"It was by order."

"And it was not of thine own head?"

"Truly," said Sam, "I would not of my own will lay a feather on thee, Philip,".

"These be feathers, Sam, heavier than a bird's," said the soldier, rising and approaching his keeper. "And being a friend, doubtless it would please thee to see me at liberty?"

"Assuredly, and that you will soon be."

"Thou art a prophet," cried Joy, springing upon the jailer; and seizing him with a powerful grasp, he hurled him to the ground, letting fall at the same time the manacles which he had loosely put on to deceive. "Make no noise," he added, "and I will not hurt thee, but to-night the words of thy prophecy must be fulfilled; so give me thy key."

The man thus treated made no resistance, nor attempted to cry out, nor did he seem desirous to speak.

"What art in amaze about?" said the soldier. "Hast lost thy wits with fright? I tell thee I would not hurt thee, for all thy iron feathers."

"I am pondering," answered Bars, composedly, "whether it were better to allow thee to reap the fruit of thy folly, or to give thee good counsel."

"Speak quick, man," said Joy, "I have no time to spend in long talks like sermons."

"Be not profane, Philip; but there is that in the pocket of my doublet, and which, if my arms were loose, I would give thee, might make thee willing to abide till morning."

"A dagger, perhaps. Nay, I will search before I trust thee." So saying, the soldier proceeded to investigate the other's pockets, but he found nothing in them or about his person except his keys and a strip of paper.

"I see nothing," he said, "but thine arms and a worthless bit of paper."

"And that is an order for thy release on the morrow. Read and satisfy thyself."

Philip retreated a few steps, and still keeping his attention on the jailer, read the writing with some difficulty by the aid of the dim light.

"Why told you me not this before?" he demanded.

"Because it would have broke your sleep, and for another reason. And now, Philip, will you ruin yourself and me, or will you remain?"

"Good Sam," said Philip, extending his hand and raising the other up, "let thou and I be sworn friends. There is some mystery behind this matter which it behooves us both to have cleared up. Answer me a question. Did Master Spikeman know of that paper?"

"Surely he did. He inquired of me concerning it."

"Umph!" grunted Philip. "Now tell again, what is that other reason why thou didst say nothing of the paper to me before?"

"Answer for answer; tickle me and I will scratch thee. I will answer that question if you will me another."

"There is reason in thee. I promise."

"Because Master Spikeman commanded me not."

"And canst tell why he wanted to speak to me alone?"

"To get to the bottom of sundry plots wherewith you were acquainted, and which you had partly confessed. And now it is my turn to ask questions, so tell me how gattest thou rid of the irons?"

"Master Spikeman unfastened them."

"I might have guessed as much before," said Bars, scratching his head.

"Hark ye, Sam, that same canon-ball of thine which thou seemest to take so great delight in digging with thy fingers, would have been a bloody coxcomb had I followed the advice of our friend, Master Spikeman."

"How!" exclaimed the jailer, did he counsel injury to me?"

"Thou hast said. At any rate, to my thinking, there was not much difference from that."

"The accursed Judas!" burst out the excited jailer; "the blood-thirsty Joab, who would have had me smitten under the fifth rib. Profane Korah, Dathan and Abiram, whom the earth swallowed up for their bitterness against Moses, were children of light compared with this horrid Philistine."

"I suppose she was sick at the stomach, and so gulped them down for bitters, just as my good mother used to give me wormwood when I was weakly in the spring," said Philip, laughing. At any other time this speech would have drawn down a serious remonstrance for its impiety, but at the present moment Sam was too much engaged with the treachery of Spikeman to bestow upon it any attention.

"Philip," he said, "I accept thy offer to be sworn friends. This Satan, this Pharaoh, this platter with the inside unwashed, shall not have another chance to set on honest men to murder one another. Hearken, and thou shalt have another secret. It was this hell incarnate who commanded me to load thee with irons, and to starve thee besides, but that I could not do."

One revelation led to another, until the whole wickedness of the Assistant was laid bare. Philip also learned in addition that it was Bars himself who had communicated a knowledge of his condition to the knight, by whom directions had been left to have him come to the Mount of Promise as soon as he should be liberated. Prudence, too, he was told, had been at the prison to inquire after him, but the instructions to the jailer forbade the carrying or delivering of messages, for which reason Philip had hitherto remained ignorant of the interest betrayed by her.

With the discovery of the villainy of Spikeman there was mixed up some comfort for the soldier in reflecting on the affection of Prudence and the friendship of the knight; but for the jailer there was no such solace. He dwelt resentfully on the exposure of his person and the loss of office which would probably have been the consequence had Philip escaped, and meditated schemes of revenge.

When the jailer took leave, the soldier stretched himself again on the straw, and in spite of the prospect of liberty and the scenes he had just passed through, was soon asleep.



CHAPTER V.

"Wherefore adew, my owne Herte true, None other red I can; For I must to the greene Wode goe, Alone, a banishyd man."

THE NUT-BROWN MAID.

The uppermost desire in the heart of Philip Joy upon being liberated in the morning by the order which, while it opened his prison door, exonerated him from no other part of his sentence, was to see Prudence; but his late experience of the wiles of Spikeman, although he could think of no motive, for his hostility, had taught him caution, and he determined to advance warily to gratify his wishes.

The occupation of Philip was that of a blacksmith and armorer, in which capacities he had been of some utility to the colony. Between whiles, also, whenever any desperate service was required in order to strike terror into the savages, he had been employed in his military character, and always with credit to himself. In consequence of his skill in his handicraft and bravery, he had at first been a man of no little consideration, but as the population of the settlement increased, and fears of the Indians diminished, and blacksmiths and armorers became more numerous, the importance of the stout soldier gradually waned. To this result contributed, in no small degree, the fact that he had never joined the congregation, and sometimes indulged in a freedom of speech on interdicted topics, which was unpalatable to those around him. Hence it happened that slight offences, which were at first overlooked in consideration of his usefulness, were no longer passed by when that usefulness was no longer prized, and there were even some who were disposed to visit him with punishment for transgressions of the kind, of years previous. Spikeman, who by his wealth and cunning, had lately succeeded in getting himself for the first time elevated to the dignity of an Assistant, had always appeared to be a friend, and indeed had truly been so, until he sought to pluck the apple of discord, the too fascinating Prudence, out of the soldier's hand. So deep was the impression of the Assistant's good-will to him, and so long had he been in the habit of regarding the magistrate as a patron, that without exactly disbelieving, he found it difficult to give full credence to the jailer's representations. His mind was so confused that he hardly knew what to do. He wanted to see Prudence before he departed for the knight's residence, and yet, with a vague dread of Spikeman's power for mischief, wished to avoid him.

Meditating upon these embarrassments, Philip mechanically took his way in the direction of the Assistant's house, unconsciously obeying the hope that some kind chance would enable him to see his mistress without being discovered. With this view, and as if believing that she would be able to see through a disguise impenetrable to others, and with some sense of shame at having been confined in a dungeon, Philip drew his slouched hat over his eyes, and muffling his face in the folds of his short cloak, walked in front of the dwelling, casting frequent glances at the windows. It was in vain, however; and fearful of attracting an attention which he desired to shun, he started at last for the forest, through which he was obliged to pass on his way to the knight's place. Wearily he dragged his steps along, for the confinement he had suffered, and the irons he had worn, had diminished his strength and chafed his limbs. Pondering sadly his unfortunate fate, he was slowly advancing, and had only just entered the wood, when he was saluted by a well-known voice, that made him start with a joyful surprise. It was that of Prudence, who was following him. She had seen him whom it would have been difficult to disguise from her, pass the house, and had allowed him to suppose himself undiscovered, and then pursued, in order to enjoy, undisturbed, a meeting which she desired as much as he. She was so overjoyed and confused at seeing him again, that somehow she stumbled as she came near, and would have fallen had not Philip caught her in his arms—for which benevolent deed he rewarded himself with a couple of smacks like the report of a pistol.

"Fie, for shame, Philip," cried Prudence, all in a glow, and looking wonderfully, as if she wanted the offence repeated; at any rate the soldier so understood it, and clasping her again in his arms, refused to release her till her lips had paid the penalty of their sweetness. "Oh, fie," said she, once more; "what would folk say if they saw thee?"

"There's only birds or a chance deer to see us," said Philip, "and it can do them no harm to take a lesson," and he attempted to renew his demonstrations of affection.

"Be quiet now," said Prudence, pushing him away. "I must soon hurry back, or I shall be missed, and I want, first, to hear all about thee, and then I have something to say on my part."

Thus rebuked, Philip seated himself, with the maiden by his side, on the trunk of a fallen tree, and narrated the circumstances of his trial and condemnation, and the occurrences at the prison. Some tears pretty Prudence let fall over parts of his story, while at others her hazel eyes flashed with indignation, and upon its conclusion she disclosed in turn the conduct of Spikeman to herself.

"I tell thee all Philip," said Prudence, "because thou dost seem to doubt about the wickedness of this bad man, who is trying to ruin us both." She stopped, and hid her face in her hands.

Great was the rage of the soldier at what he had heard.

"By the head of king Charles," he swore, "I will drive my dagger into his black heart."

He rose in anger, as if about immediately to put his threat into execution, but the girl threw her arms around him and drew him down.

"That would be certain death to thee, Philip," she said. "We must find other means to punish him. Besides, I must keep thee safe to serve my young mistress."

"Thou art right, Prudence, and I am hot and hasty; but does not the villain deserve the warmest place in Beelzebub's dominions who would harm thee? Prudence, thou shalt not remain in his house."

"That will I," replied the girl. "Why, who is to wait on my mistress, and take care of her but me? If mistress Eveline were to hear thy speech, she would not be over obliged to thee, Master Philip, for wishing me to desert her."

"You misunderstand me, and that is not my desire. But art not afraid of the old villain?"

"Me afraid!" exclaimed Prudence, contemptuously, curling her lips; "I am not half as much afraid of him as I am of thee." And as she uttered the words, she drew herself a little back from him on the log where they sat.

"But tell me, my brave robin red-breast," said Philip, casting a look at the gay cloak which she had thrown around her person, and not seeming to pay much regard to the latter part of her answer, "how am I to serve mistress Eveline?"

"O, I know not, yet I dare say we shall be able to turn thee to some good purpose; men are sometimes so useful!"

"I will recollect thy speech," said the soldier, laughing, "and promise to teach thee, on a future occasion, how maidens also may be useful. But hast never a message from mistress Eveline to Master Arundel, should I chance to see him, for he is often at the place of the Knight of the Golden Melice, and it is my purpose to go thither to-day?"

"Young ladies affect not to send messages to thy over bold sex," said Prudence, tossing her head, "but an' thou dost see the gentleman, thou mayest tell him, as from me, that she is well, and desires his prosperity."

"A cold message, truly, and it is well the weather is warm, else would poor Master Arundel be in danger of being frozen into an icicle."

"A hundred such messages would not, I fear, cool thy hot blood; but Master Miles is gentle born, and less presumptuous than thou; thou mayest therefore say, rather than hurt his feelings, that my mistress would have no objection to seeing him."

"What a buttermilk kind of a message is that!" said the soldier. Dost think that a man of any spirit is going to be satisfied with an errand that runs like a stream of cold water down one's back? Come, Prudence, perk thy red lips into more reasonable and comforting words."

"Thou art thyself unreasonable, Philip. Dost suppose it becomes a young woman to let her gallant know all she thinks about him? He ought to be ravished to believe that she does not hate him like the rest of them who wear beards; at any rate, thou wilt get nothing else from me."

"I must perforce, then, be content," said Philip, "since it may not be otherwise; and the less unwillingly because having had some experience in the nature of women, I know they mean more than they say. So I will even translate thy words into thy mistress' intention, and say she is dying of melancholy till she sees him."

"Thou wilt be a false varlet an' thou dost, and I will never trust thee with message more. Such leasing will only harm thee, for Master Miles knows there is not in America nor in dear old Devonshire a modester or properer young lady. O dear, how glad I should be just to step into the grand cathedral in sweet Exeter, and see the brave knights who died so long ago all lying cross-legged, so decent on their marble tombs by the sides of their ladies."

"Take care, my little Puritan," said Philip, "this is no fitting country for such talk. The reverend elders have long ears, and for aught I know, there may be one in the tree overhead listening."

Prudence jumped hastily from her seat, and cast a frightened glance at these words into the tree, while Philip burst into a laugh.

"Why, how you scared me," said the girl, recovering from her trepidation. "This is the way you treat me, you vile man, for putting myself to all this trouble on your account. But I would have you to know that I am no more a Puritan, Philip Joy, than thyself, if I do wear a close-fitting cap, which is none of the most becoming either. If I do give into their ways, it is for the sake of my mistress, whom no Geneva cloak, nor bishop's sleeves, for that matter, shall make me desert."

"Bravo, bravissimo, as the outlandish fellows say," exclaimed the soldier; "thou art of the genuine game breed, Prudence, and were it not that thy pretty person might come to harm, I would desire no better front rank man than thee. But this is a dangerous litany, and I beseech thee, dear Prudence, to remember how thou art named."

He said this in a tone of emotion, which, if anything were wanting, would have been sufficient to convince the girl of the interest he felt for her; but she needed no such supplementary proof. It had the effect, however, of making the conversation assume a more serious aspect, and the girl more gravely replied:

"I will be careful, Philip, for my mistress' sake and mine own, and—"

"And for mine, too," interrupted the soldier.

"And for the sake of all them," continued Prudence, "who find anything in me to take an interest in. O, Philip, I tremble lest you should do or say something again that these dreadful solemn folk, who look sour enough to curdle milk, and hate you because you laugh, may get hold of to do you an injury. O, Philip, pray be prudent about laughing."

"Nay, Prudence," said he, drawing his illustration from what he happened to see at the moment, "you might as well bid yon squirrel not to jump from bough to bough. It is our nature, and you cannot change a squirrel into an owl, or a man into a block. But," he continued, taking her hand, "I have not told thee all. I know not when I shall see thee again, for I am a banished man."

"Banished!" repeated Prudence, turning pale; "I thought they had already wronged thee enough for a few innocent words—and now banished! What will become of thee, Philip, and of me?"

"Never fear, sweetheart; we will turn their flank yet. I have been thinking, as I came wandering along, that this Master Spikeman, who keeps mistress Eveline as a sort of prisoner on parole, has an object in getting me out of his way, so as better to carry on his wicked plans. My jealous pate at first could think only of thee; but now I begin to fancy he may have designs upon pretty mistress Eveline as well as upon thyself. Nay, never bite your sweet lips till they bleed, nor dart the sparks out of thine eyes, or you may singe my doublet, I do suspect this from the equal desire he hath shown to remove Master Miles Arundel from the colony. He did threaten him, as I have heard, with some law they have here forbidding a man to pay his court to a maid without license from the worshipful magistrates."

"Did ever mortal hear the like!" exclaimed Prudence. "O, the weary magistrates and elders! what is the world coming to?"

"To nothing but Indians in these parts, if they go on in this way, and not let young folk court, unless they keep sending people from England to replenish the stock, and they will get tired of coming when they hear how things are going on. But, Prudence, banish or no banish, law or no law, they shall not, if thou art agreed, prevent my seeing thee."

The girl looked affectionately at her lover, and gently returned the pressure of his hand.

"I will hie me to the knight," continued Philip. "I happened once to be of use to him, and he is not a man to forget a favor, though he is somewhat changed since the time I first saw him. He was then a fiery youth, for all he can look so grave at times now. He hath some credit, for it was by his intercession with the Governor that my imprisonment was shortened. I will hie me to him, and hear what he advises, more especially as he hath sent for me. And I bethink me, Prudence, it were no bad thing, if he can do so much, to get him to speak a word for mistress Eveline."

"An' thou couldest, it were a good deed, and heaven will reward thee therefor."

"I will look to thee, instead of heaven, for my reward," said the soldier. "Meanwhile do thou have thine eyes like those in a peacock's tail, all around thee, for this Master Spikeman is cunninger than all the foxes whose tails Samson tied together."

"Trust me, Philip, and be thou discreet. And now must I be going back, for I would not abuse the liberty the kind heart of dame Spikeman gives me by loitering too long; so good-bye."

"And is this the way you take leave, when perhaps you may not see me again for a month? Not one salute?"

"Methinks thou hast been firing salutes enough already to welcome a ship from England. Be content, Sir Malapert, with their discharges;" and Prudence began tripping it away.

"I'll not be content with such a discharge," muttered the soldier; then raising his voice, he called after her, "Prudence, Prudence, hasten not away so fast; there is one thing I forgot."

The girl at the sound of his voice retraced her steps a little, and met Philip.

"Harkee in thine ear," said he, "for I must speak low. I did omit to put my seal to our covenant;" and before Prudence was aware, he had imprinted a smack upon her cheek.

"And there is mine," cried Prudence, hitting him a box upon the ear, "and I warrant it will be as red as thine," and with that she bounded like a deer away.

"The foul fiend fly away with me, an' I love not the girl dearly," exclaimed the soldier, looking after her with admiring eyes, as like a red-winged butterfly she flew through the green bushes. "If I ever have the luck to get her, I shall have a dame strong enough to carry her part of our bundle. Well, go thy ways, Prudence Rix, for as comely, and as sweet-breathed, and as kind a lass, notwithstanding the weight of thy hand, as ever milked a cow in the old country."

The frame of mind in which the soldier now pursued his walk was very different from that in which it had commenced. The dampness of the prison which had begun to affect his health was forgotten, as the genial sun gradually dried the clamminess out of his clothing, and he inspired the reviving morning air. It seemed to him he could not drink deep enough draughts of the woodland scents, which flowed so deliciously through his lungs, as almost to compensate for the suffering which he had endured. His unexpected interview with Prudence, after he had given up all expectation of it, conduced also to impart vivacity to his spirits, and he advanced, not with a rapid pace, for of that his treatment in the jail had made him incapable, but cheerfully and resolutely.

It was perhaps an hour afterwards, when Philip, as he was walking slowly on, heard the sounds of a person coming after him, and looking round, he beheld the man whom of all the world he least desired to see. The whole temper of his spirit was at once changed. The peace which, like a stream of perfumes, had been flowing into his soul, was checked, and the atmosphere became hot and suffocating around him. It was Spikeman approaching, who was on his way to a plantation he had in the neighborhood, for there were few things promising profit to which the adventurous speculator had not directed his attention.

Philip strove to keep the horns of the rising devil out of his heart, and averting his head, stepped on one side to allow the other to pass. Spikeman noticed the desire,—for it was too marked not to be observed; and in a new country, even strangers are not in the habit of passing one another without greeting,—but he paid no attention to it; and as he came up, laid his hand on Philip's shoulder, and bade him a good morning.

The soldier started as though pierced by a thorn, and shaking off the hand roughly, requested the Assistant to go on his way and leave him to himself.

"How now," exclaimed Spikeman. "Methinks this is cold welcome for a friend."

"Pass on thy way," said the soldier. "I desire not thy company."

"Verily, am I amazed," said Spikeman. "Surely, to confer a favor on the unthankful, is like pouring water on sand."

"I do advise thee, Master Spikeman," said Philip, "to cease thine abuse. I am no longer a fool stumbling along with his eyes blinded."

The curiosity of the Assistant had been aroused at the beginning, and he determined to ascertain how far Philip's knowledge of his conduct extended, for his guilty conscience whispered that some discovery of the soldier occasioned the changed behavior. It might be caused only by suspicion, and if so, he trusted by his ingenuity to dispel it; but if he had been betrayed, it was important that he should know it. The Assistant, moreover, was curious to learn from the soldier himself, why he had not broken jail as advised. He concluded that the soldier had not; for had he done so, the escape would probably have been known by morning; yet was Spikeman confident that Philip at the time of their interview in the jail had no knowledge of the order for his release. Perhaps Bars had overcome in the struggle, and disregarded it. With doubts like these floating through his mind, he began to probe Philip.

"What ails thee?" he inquired. "It would seem as if you took me for an enemy, and yet have I not always approved myself thy friend, even jeopardizing my position as a magistrate no longer ago than yesternight to release thee from jail?"

"Master Spikeman," answered Philip, "thou dost well know, I doubt not, that I am at liberty, not because I did by thy advice knock out the brains of harmless Sam Bars, but by the grace of the Governor's order."

"I counselled no more violence than was necessary to effect thy purpose; but who moved the Governor in thy case?

"Not thou, as I am well advised, but the noble Knight of the Golden Melice, a man as much superior to thee, as I am to an Indian."

"Thou art mad and vituperative, Philip, and were it not so early, I should think thou hadst been indulging too liberally in drafts of aqua vitae. It is a vile habit. But as the Archangel Michael returned not a railing accusation, but said, the Lord rebuke, thee, Satan, so say I unto thee. Truly, I comprehend thy game. Thou art weary of thy old friends, and being desirous to propitiate new, dost seek a quarrel to mask thine ingratitude. But see whether this famous knight prove not a broken reed."

The soldier, in spite of his conviction of the villainy of the other, was touched at the taunt, and hastened to defend himself.

"It is false, Master Spikeman," he cried. "If thou wert truly a friend, wherefore advise me to break jail, and thus expose myself to be hunted as a malefactor, when I had but to wait till morning for deliverance?"

"It is much, Philip Joy, for one in my condition to condescend to explain, especially after thy rudeness of speech; yet will I do it, that no fancied cause may be left for thy base suspicions. Shortly, then, I knew not of Gov. Winthrop's intention, for when I did entreat him in thy behalf, he spake in such ambiguous phrase as effectually to cloak his thoughts. I doubt not, now, that it was to make the surprise the more agreeable."

This was said with such an appearance of innocence, that the simplicity of the soldier was confounded, and he began to doubt more and more the truth of his suspicions. But the communication of Prudence rankled in his mind, and though disposed to acquit the Assistant of treachery against himself, he could not forgive the treatment of the girl. He did not doubt her word, and yet desired to hear the Assistant's excuse, if he had any. He shrunk from the subject, and yet was drawn to it, like a moth fascinated by a light.

"There is another thing I like not," he said, hesitatingly.

"And pray, what may thy wisdom have discovered now?"

"That it is not becoming in a grave magistrate to try to cozen servant girls," burst from the soldier.

"Has Prudence—?" but here the Assistant, sensible that he had already said too much, suddenly checked himself, while his sallow cheek looked still more yellow. But the escape of the girl's name, even without the embarrassment, was a confession of guilt to the soldier, who, with rising passion, exclaimed—

"Away, or I shall be tempted to do that whereof I may repent."

Spikeman marked his agitation, and hesitated whether to come to an open breach, or continue his system of deception. The craft of his nature preponderated, and he determined to adopt the latter course.

"Gently, Philip," he said. "Thy prison hath strangely affected thee; but because I pity, I will not be angry. At least let me finish the sentence which I begun. I did desire to know whether Prudence, whom, that thou dost affect, I have for some time known, (nay, never blush; I have been young myself,) whether Prudence, I say, gained access to thy prison to tell thee of my exertions in thy behalf?"

"Thou exert thyself for me! Go to, thou wert more busy for thyself."

"I understand thee not; yet hearken, for the whole truth must be revealed. I say that I have done all that man could do, and as the event proves, not in vain. As for Prudence, I will confess to one impropriety, if it be thy pleasure to call it so, though I meant it not, and whereof thou art in some sense the cause. Knowing thy regard for her, I did speak one day of my hopes for thee, whereat the tears did stand in her eyes, and I was so moved thereat, that I did salute her cheek, but only as a father might caress a child."

The soldier was more bewildered than ever. He was incapable of conceiving of such falsehood as the other's. It seemed to him now that Prudence might be mistaken, and have converted a mere compliment into an insult, so contrary appeared, the intimations which she had made to what was to be expected from the years and gravity of the Assistant. The freedom with which Spikeman spoke of kissing the girl confirmed the idea, and Philip fancied that he had been harsh.

"Master Spikeman," he said at length, "if I have unjustly suspected thee, I crave pardon. There may be something in what you said, but the prison hath clouded my mind."

"Think no more of it, Philip, though doubtless it is so. I have known many a one who, by confinement, hath irretrievably lost his wits. Therefore will it be wise in thee not to be arrested again."

"Wherefore arrested, since I have an order of release?"

"Alas, thou dost forget thy banishment. If thou art taken within the forbidden boundaries, severe will be thy punishment. Attempt not for Prudence's sake, or any cause, to return without apprising me thereof, when I will endeavor to provide for thy safety."

The soldier extended his hand.

"This is kind," he said, "and be assured, Master Spikeman, that I will not soon conceive suspicion of thee again." These women be notional things, he murmured to himself.

Spikeman took the hand.

"Now this is like thyself, Philip," he said—"a brave soldier—true as a Toledo blade—one who loves his friend, and hates his enemy, although this latter part should not be so. Thou art journeying, I see, to the knight's place. Mayst thou find in him a patron, but it will do no harm to say—be on thy guard; one old friend is better than a dozen new."

He turned away, and the soldier, as he looked after him, said—

"There is truth in thy words, but thou art ignorant that the knight and I were friends long before I knew thee."



CHAPTER VI.

Nature I court in her sequestered haunts, By mountain, meadow, streamlet, grove or cell, Where the poised lark his evening ditty chaunts, And Health, and Peace, and Contemplation dwell.

SMOLLETT.

So long had the soldier been delayed by his interviews with Prudence and the Assistant, that it was not until past noon that he reached the knight's residence. It was a large, irregularly built log-cabin, or cottage, covered with thatch, resembling somewhat, except in the last particular, and in being larger, the log-cabins one meets in the new settlements of the West, with a sort of piazza or porch, which seemed to have been lately built, running across the front. Such was the rude exterior; though the interior, as we shall presently see, when we enter the building, was furnished in a style indicating both wealth and refinement.

The house stood near the bottom of a hill, upon a piece of cleared land of perhaps half a dozen acres, upon which not the vestige of a stump was to be seen. The ground sloped gently away from the building to the southeast, until it met a small stream, which meandered at the base of the hill, and running in an easterly direction, was lost to sight in the forest. In front of the house, at the distance of a rod, bubbled up a bright spring, which, dashing down the declivity, fell into the first-mentioned stream. Except this cultivated spot, which had been an old corn-field of the natives, selected by them for the fertility of the soil, its advantage of water, and the favorable slope of the land, which enabled it to engross more than a common share of the genial heat of the sun, and expedite the maturing of its harvests, all was one unbroken extent of forest. In the soft autumnal days, when the maize leaves rustled yellow on their stalks, it must have looked to the soaring eagle, gazing from his "pride of place," like a vast nest in a green leafy frame.

Around this building, at some little distance, viz., at the edge of the encircling forest, were scattered some four or five wigwams, or Indian lodges, made of the bark of trees, from some of which smoke curled lazily up into the blue sky, imparting assurance thereby of their being inhabited, though the presence of some naked children near the entrances, who were shooting with little bows at marks, and amusing themselves in other ways, made any such indication unnecessary.

As the soldier drew near, he heard more and more distinctly musical sounds, and presently could distinguish the tinkling of a guitar, accompanied by a female voice. He stopped and listened. The air was slow and solemn, the notes were soft and clear, and the words sweet, but not English. There was a rich luxuriance, yet pathos in the music, like the utterances of a spirit whose hopes were mingled with reminiscences of joys which it had lost. How long Philip listened, he knew not, so entranced was he by the sounds. It was a long time since he had heard such delicious strains, and the effect upon him was therefore the greater. Suddenly they ceased, as if his approach had been discovered, and immediately thereafter, a man stepped out upon the piazza. Philip recognized him at once as the young man to whom Prudence had sent a message, and whom he himself had called Master Arundel.

He was a fair-haired youth of some twenty-three or four years, with that clear, bright complexion so common among the English, and which they owe to their foggy climate and habit of exercise in the open air. Dark blue eyes looked out joyously from a handsome face, which would have been effeminate, so delicate were the features and rosy the tint of the cheeks, but for a brown moustache, which shaded the lip, and redeemed it from the imputation. His doublet and hose were of a dark green cloth, as was also the cap he held in his hand, and he wore boots made of yellow leather, reaching above the knee, and full at the top. Around his neck was a white band, like those worn by the wealthier colonists. This young gentleman first spoke.

"Ha! Achilles, or Coeur de Lion from captivity," or to fashion my speech more into the humor of this new world, "O, Daniel from the lion's den, greatly doth my heart rejoice at thy deliverance." "Welcome, good Philip," he added, in a more natural tone, betraying some sympathy, and taking him at the same time by the hand; "welcome to your friends."

The tired soldier sank down upon a bench before he was able to speak.

"Thy tongue is dry, and moves slowly, and, now that I regard thee more closely, art pale. We must cheer up thy drooping spirit"

"Having thus spoken, the young man entered the house, and presently returned with a flagon and drinking cups.

"Drink, man," said Arundel, filling a cup with wine, "and wash all sorrow out of thine heart. The suns that ripened the grapes out of which this juice was crushed, were bright and joyous. May they impart their own happiness and vigor unto thee."

The soldier put the cup to his lips, nor withdrew it until the contents were drained.

"I feel," he said, "the good wine tingling through all my veins, and am a new man again."

"Fill once more," said the young man, suiting the action to the word; "one shower is not enough for so thirsty a soil."

The soldier did not refuse, and having drank a second time, he felt refreshed.

"Pleasant enough quarters, Master Arundel," he said, looking around; "and I see ye have some red-skins camped near by."

"They are the knight's particular friends, whose society it seems to be his sovereign pleasure to cultivate. He has persuaded them to gather round him, forming what may be called his body-guard."

"Or outposts of the main garrison. Well, for runners or scouts they may answer, but for hand-to-hand action, they are naught. But where is Sir Christopher?"

"He started on a hunt this morning, our larder having run low. Hark!" he added, as suddenly the blast of a bugle was heard echoing through the forest, "that is the sound wherewith he is accustomed to announce his approach, and you will presently see him coming out of the wood."

Sure enough, in a few moments the tall form of the knight, arrayed in a deer-skin hunting-shirt, with leggins of the same material, and "a piece" in his hand, was seen emerging into the open space. He was followed by a couple of Indians, each of whom bore on his shoulders a deer.

"Quecheco," the two white men heard him say, as he came out of the bushes, "carry thou thy deer to my lodge, and do thou, Pococke, divide thine with thy brother Quecheco." After speaking these words he advanced toward them.

"So, ho, Philip," cried Sir Christopher, "again under my banner. Fate hath decreed us I think for buenas camaradas, and for my part I heartily rejoice thereat. A braver heart than thine never beat under steel corselet, or truer hand wielded a sharp sword."

"I thank you, Sir Christopher, for your good opinion," said the soldier, "but I have seen little service since we parted among the Turbans, of whom somehow your wine sets me a thinking, at all to my mind. As for fighting these naked savages, who have nothing but children's bows and stone hatchets, while our men-at-arms are clad in bullet-proof steel from head to heel, methinks there is little manhood required therefor, and for what I have done in that way, I confess myself somewhat ashamed."

"It doth please me to hear thee speak thus, Philip," replied the knight. True valor is ever joined with generosity, and despises to take advantage of superior strength to crush the weaker. But fear not that I have any service of the kind for thee. I came not among these innocent natives to bring a sword, but the olive branch of peace. I would see them peaceful, and united, and happy, not broken into hostile clans, and delighting in murdering one another."

"I spoke not," said the soldier, "as desiring to make terms with you, Sir Christopher, well knowing that you would ask nothing which an honest man would be unwilling to perform, and am only too happy to enter your service."

"So be it, Philip," said the knight. "Henceforth be here thy home."

"Truly," exclaimed the soldier, stretching out his legs with a sigh of relief, "there is some difference between lying in a prison, or even talking with Master Spikeman in the bushes, as I did but just now, and being with good wine and noble gentlemen."

"Didst meet on thy way that most puritanical of Puritans, the praying, cheating, canting, hypocritical, long-faced Master Spikeman?" cried Arundel. "I wonder what new mischief he hath now on foot, for it is his meat?"

"Master Miles Arundel," said the knight, "thy language is too intemperate to be excused even by thy youth. Check the bitterness of thine expression, and know that he who rules his own spirit is greater than he who wins a kingdom."

A flash of haughty resentment lighted up the eyes of the young man at the reproof, but as he saw that no offence was designed, he answered:

"I expect never to win a kingdom, but as for this villain—"

"Peace, I entreat thee, my young friend," interrupted Sir Christopher. "I am curious to hear of Philip's treatment in his confinement, if he will favor us with an account thereof?"

Hereupon the soldier recounted to them all that had passed in his prison, including his interview with Spikeman, and attack on the jailer, and also the conversation in the wood, except those parts which had relation to Prudence.

"I see not," said Arundel, upon the conclusion of the narrative, "why the wily Assistant should be thine enemy, but he clearly is. Thou art honored in this respect as well as I."

"My mind doth misgive me that you are right," said Philip. "Away from him. He seems an arch villain, though in his presence the feeling changes, for he hath a tongue to wile a bird from the bough."

"Be sure I am not mistaken. See now whether Sir Christopher be not of the same opinion."

Thus appealed to, the knight answered:

"I fear that your judgment, Master Arundel, is correct, though caring not to enter into the reasons which have forced me to this conclusion. But we will endeavor to use such caution that any mischievous designs of his shall be defeated. Happily my homestead is not comprised within the limits of the colony, and the sentence of banishment is complied with, Philip being here."

Hereupon Sir Christopher rose and entered the house, and the soldier took advantage of his absence to deliver the message of Prudence, which, as he had threatened, he colored a little. With all his efforts he was unable to conceal the interest which he felt for the girl, but the young man good naturedly allowed him to suppose it unnoticed. In a short time the knight reappeared, and invited them in to dinner.

The apartment which they entered opened immediately upon the porch, and was a room some twenty feet square, constituting somewhat more than a quarter of the building. The walls were merely unhewn logs, divested of the bark, and filled in with a tenacious clay resembling mortar. Against them were nailed, or supported by wooden pegs, in divers places, branching horns of the moose and deer, over which were hung hunting-shirts and skins of various wild animals, tanned with the hair on. The antlers also, in many instances, supported guns, and swords, and hunting pouches, and powder-horns, and, in short, whatever might be necessary for attack or defence in war, and success in the chase. In the centre of the room a table for four or five persons was set, and a squaw was busy near a fire preparing the meal.

It was not long before the simple dinner, consisting principally of venison steaks and bread made of Indian corn, was placed by the squaw on the board, and the three men drew up, Philip manifesting some modest reluctance, until pressed thereto by the knight.

"The vain distinctions of the world," said Sir Christopher, "are out of place here. My soul sickens at the servile respect paid to stars and garters. The jewel of the spirit is to be prized, not by the setting, but by the degree of its own splendor it darts around."

Nor simple though the dinner was, were there wanting draughts of wine like that of which the soldier had drank upon his arrival. Of the three, he drank the most freely; Arundel moderately, and the knight almost abstemiously. As the last regarded the pale face of Philip, and marked the kindling lustre of his eyes, he pardoned the poor fellow, in consideration of what he had endured, the freedom of his libations.

At the conclusion of the meal, Arundel, turning to the knight, said:

"Philip has brought me word, Sir Christopher, which will necessitate the abridgment of a visit I did intend should be longer. My purpose is to return to Boston in the morning."

"May a friend inquire after the cause of your sudden departure?" asked the knight.

"It hath some connection," answered the young man, slightly blushing, "with a matter wherewith you are already acquainted, I know not why I should hesitate to aver before yourself and Philip that it hath reference to mistress Eveline Dunning."

"Fear not to speak the honest impulses of thine heart, Master Arundel," said the knight, "nor deem that I can take amiss thy preference of the starry eyes of pretty mistress Eveline to a hermitage in the wood."

"She desires to see me," returned the young man, "and I hold it a sacred duty to watch over her, for she is a lamb in the jaws of a lion."

"My opinion of the worshipful Master Spikeman," said the knight, "is not much more favorable than thine own, though mine eyes be not blinded by the deceitful mists of passion. Be wary, however, else mayest thou incur an enmity which it were well to avoid."

"What wouldest have me do, Sir Christopher?" demanded the young man, rising with some impatience. "Detains he not my affianced bride? Refuses he not even to allow me to see her, and must not our meetings be stolen? Does he not deny the solemn obligation he took upon himself by the death-bed of his too confiding friend, to unite Eveline with me in marriage, and is he not thereby a perjured wretch, regardless alike of his vow to God and of duty to the dead and living? I care not for his enmity, but prefer it to his friendship, nor will I tamely permit him to triumph in his villainy."

"Calm thyself, Master Arundel," said the knight; "truly I counselled no such thing. My heart is with thee, and my hand at thy service in this matter, for I esteem thee wronged, but neither violence of speech nor precipitancy in action will avail to right thee. All means of persuasion are not exhausted. Why not endeavor to interest Governor Winthrop in thy behalf?"

"To what purpose? Suppose you he would take my word in opposition to that of a fellow saint and magistrate?"

"Unjust! Master Arundel; degrade not the noble Winthrop, a pattern of many Christian virtues, and some knightly qualities, by such association. But to thy word would be superadded that of the young lady. He must believe her."

"Nay, Sir Christopher, your eagle glance at once detects falsehood wherewith it has no affinity, and you judge of others according to the standard of your own nobleness, but I am persuaded the attempt would be in vain. The case stands thus: there is really but witness against witness, for what know I of what occurred at the death-bed of Eveline's father, except what she herself has told me? Kind though may be the heart of the Governor, and sound his judgment, the false asseveration of the Assistant would outweigh the declaration of Eveline; and, did it not, and were he ever so favorably disposed, no court in this New Canaan, as they call it, would decide against one of the congregation in favor of an orphan girl not protected by their magic covenant, and whose hand is sought by an intruder into their fold."

"I deny not the force of thine argument," replied the knight, "and yet have I remarked an omnipotence in truth, that doth make me insist on having recourse to Governor Winthrop. As is the God-like sun, animating and vivifying all things, searching into dark recesses and driving out bats and impure vermin by his intolerable presence, and unveiling ugliness and hatefulness, so is Truth. Withersoever she turns her shining mirror there Error may not abide, but like a dastardly coward, flies from the glory. Believe, Master Arundel, that He who is uncreated, Truth will magnify that wherein He delights."

"To pleasure thee, Sir Christopher, there is nothing which I would not undertake, convinced though I am of its inefficacy."

"So please you then, represent your grievance in the highest quarter, before you further proceed. And now, I propose to present Philip to Lady Geraldine, if her leisure serve. You will accompany us."

Passing through a vestibule, which separated the two rooms, the knight threw open a door, and admitted them into an apartment of smaller dimensions than the first, but fitted up with far more regard to comfort, and with even some pretension to elegance. The floor was covered with matting made by the Indian women, on which strange figures were drawn, stained with brilliant dyes; the sides of the room also were hung with matting, over which fell folds of scarlet cloth reaching to within a couple of feet of the floor, imparting an air of gayety, while overhead was tightly drawn and fastened to the rafters a light blue cloth, approaching in color the hue of the sky. Some chairs were scattered around, and on a table lay a guitar, on the top of a book. No person was in the apartment at the moment of their entrance, and, upon the invitation of the knight, they took seats to await the arrival of the lady.

They had been seated but a short time when another door opened, and a comely gentlewoman entered, ushered by a little Indian girl. The age of the lady appeared to be about the same as that of the knight, and, to judge from her complexion, she was not of English extraction. Her features, though not regular, were handsome; the eyes large and black, with hair of the same color, confined by a white cap; her figure was tall and slender, and her carriage dignified and noble. Her dress consisted merely of a black gown, without ornament, and rising high into the neck, and as she approached she looked like one oppressed with sadness.

Her little swarthy attendant seemed to be a pet which she took delight in adorning, and truly, the little girl was not unconscious that her childish beauty was enhanced by richness of attire. A crimson satin tunic, like a basque, was fastened around her waist by a golden band, beneath which fell a blue silk skirt as far as the knees, while high upon the ankles were laced deer-skin buskins, profusely bedecked with shining beads and colored porcupine quills. Around her arms, above the elbows, were strings of colored beads, her wrists were clasped by bracelets of the same description, and about her neck was twined a gold chain.

As the lady thus attended advanced, all rose to pay the respect due to her sex and station.

"Behold, Lady Geraldine," said the knight, presenting to her the soldier, "the valiant man to whom I once owed my life."

"He is very welcome," replied the lady, in an accent just foreign enough to impart a strange interest to her speech. "The savior of my cousin's life is very welcome."

The embarrassed soldier, confounded at the presence of one who looked to him like a superior being, could find no words to return to her greeting, and only bowed low to conceal his confusion.

"I have heard, Sir Christopher," she continued, "speak of the daring feat of arms whereby he was rescued from the foe, and longed to behold his valorous deliverer to return my soul-felt thanks. Be seated, most welcome gentlemen. And thou, Master Arundel, I trust, hast received intelligence from Boston which will chase away the cloud that sometimes gathers on thy brow."

"Honored madam," answered the young man, in the inflated style of gallantry which the custom of high-bred society not only permitted but enjoined, "when the beautiful majesty of the heavenly sun appears, clouds have no place above the horizon, but fly away, chased by his golden shafts."

"Would that I had the power," said the lady, "as the beneficent sun dispels the clouds, so to drive away all sorrow and disappointment. There is no grief-laden heart that should not be cheered."

"Recount now, Philip, to Lady Geraldine, the adventure which causes the colony to lose a valiant soldier, and me to gain for our solitude an old friend and companion in arms," said the knight.

The soldier, upon being thus addressed, found his voice, and narrated to the lady the circumstances of his enforced departure from Boston. She listened with an appearance of interest, and upon its conclusion spoke a few words expressive of her sorrow for his imprisonment, and of congratulation for the knight, to whom she hoped he would be for the future attached.

"I do begin to consider my banishment as no misfortune," said the soldier, whose confidence in himself was now restored. "The labor of my forge and exposure of life for folk who know not how to excuse a hasty word or two, are well exchanged for the service of so noble a master and mistress."

"Be sure, thou shalt not rust like a sheathed sword," said the knight, "and it shall go hard, but I will find for thee employment to content an undegenerate spirit. But, Lady Geraldine, while we gain one to our company, we lose (only for a short time, I hope) another. Master Arundel purposes to leave our solitude to-morrow."

The lady looked inquiringly at the young man, who answered with a blush:

"A message brought by Philip doth constrain my departure."

"A sweet constraint," said the knight, smiling. "Fear not, Master Arundel, that Lady Geraldine will blame thee for obeying an impulse as natural as the love of a bee for a flower. The diamond eyes of Mistress Eveline would furnish apology for a deeper crime."

"I trust all is well with sweet Mistress Eveline," said the lady.

"All well, may it please you, madam, save for the injurious durance which, in despite of his promise, and regardless of all honor as a man, the villain Spikeman, who calls himself her guardian, imposes on her."

"He will relent," said the lady. "It may be he desires only to try the strength of thy devotion. The flame of thy love will burn the brighter for the trial."

"I have no hope of such result, Arundel. He is so wedded to evil, that to do a good action would be to him a pain."

"Nay," said the lady, "it cannot be there is a creature who loves evil for its own sake. That were quite to extinguish the heavenly spark. Judge not unhappy Master Spikeman so harshly. Commend me to the love of Mistress Eveline," she added, rising, "when you see her, and say that I wear her sweet image in my heart."

So saying, she bowed and left the apartment, preceded by the little girl, the others rising, and remaining standing as long as she was in sight.



CHAPTER VII.

Thinkest thou that I could bear to part From thee and learn to halve my heart? Years have not seen, time shall not see, The hour that tears my soul from thee.

BRIDE OF ABYDOS.

It was early on the morning of the next day when Arundel started on his way to Boston, whither the message delivered by the soldier had somewhat hastened his return. There was, indeed, to one not in love, nothing in it to require such haste, and the explanation of his departure is to be found only in the natural desire of a lover to be near his mistress. Something might happen; he would seek an occasion to see her; perhaps a plan might be devised; at least, his wishes could not be promoted by keeping himself at a distance. While the young man, musing on sweet hopes and vague unformed designs, is threading his way through the forest, we will take advantage of the opportunity to explain in a few words what the reader, as yet, only imperfectly suspects.

Two years previous to the time when our story commences, Edmund Dunning, a landholder and gentleman of consideration, in the county of Devon, in England, having recently adopted the creed and practice of the Puritans, (as a sect dissenting from the Church of England, somewhat in doctrine, and wholly in outward observances, was called; from asserting, as it was thought, pretentions to superior purity of belief and strictness of living,) left the shores of his native island with an only child, a daughter, then between seventeen and eighteen years of age, to seek that freedom for his faith in the new world, which, as he conceived, was denied him in the old. His whole family consisted of this daughter, Eveline, his wife having deceased several years previously. His departure was hastened by a circumstance which had for some time occasioned him no little uneasiness, and the evil consequences of which he could think of no other means so effectually to avoid. This circumstance was an intimacy between the beautiful Eveline and a young gentleman in the neighboring town more tender than the father approved, who looked upon the hopes of the suitor as presumptuous, and was, besides, opposed to an union, on account of a diversity of religious sentiment betwixt himself and the aspirant.

This young man was Miles Arundel. A year before Master Dunning and his daughter left England, he had come to the town of Exeter, near to which the Dunnings lived on their estate, and opened a studio as a landscape painter. It was not, however, until a month after his arrival, that he seemed at all decided as to his intentions, the time being spent in wandering over the beautiful country, and making occasionally a sketch; nor after he had offered his services to the public in a professional capacity did he work very diligently. Yet was it remarked that he was never in want of money; and the citizens of Exeter thought that he must get high prices for his pictures in London to warrant his expenditure.

Among the families to which he was introduced as an artist, was that of Edmund Dunning. Eveline was no indifferent sketcher herself, and accompanied her father one day on a visit to the rooms of Master Arundel. It is said that the young people blushed at the meeting, but however that may be, the blush was unobserved by Master Dunning.

So agreeable did the young artist make himself, that one visit led on to another, and he was invited to the house of Dunning, and soon found himself, he hardly knew how, on a familiar footing in his family, and giving lessons in painting to his daughter. Edmund Dunning had no intentions that any other lessons should be given, and it accordingly grieved him when he discovered the terms on which the young people stood to one another, and which their ingenuousness could not conceal. With this relation he had made himself acquainted as soon as he suspected it, by inquiring of Eveline, who frankly told him the whole truth. Arundel loved her, but dared not, on account of the distance that separated him from her father, make known his feelings. The father demanded of his child why she did not, at the beginning, check such aspiring thoughts, and whether it was proper to allow of the continuance of such a state of things. Poor Eveline could only reply with tears, and that she could not prevent Miles loving her, but confessed that she had done wrong, and promised to break off the intimacy.

"I am unacquainted with his family, which is probably obscure," said Edmund Dunning; "but were the blood of Alfred in his veins, he should have no daughter of mine so long as he favors the persecuting Church of England, which I know he does, notwithstanding his constant attendance at the meetings of the congregation, the reason whereof I now understand."

The promise which Eveline made to her father she kept, nor from that moment would she consent to see Arundel. He pleaded hard for a single interview, if only to take leave, and though her heart strongly took his part, she replied that she would not increase the reproaches of her conscience by advancing a step further in an intimacy which she had wrongly concealed from her father, and was disapproved by him. All intercourse between the lovers ceased from this time, and shortly after Arundel disappeared from the neighborhood.

But it was at the risk of her health that Eveline obeyed her parent. The rounded form began to become thin; the cheeks, in which red roses were accustomed to bloom, faded, and the lovely blue eyes lost their lustre. The anxious father noticed these signs with apprehension, and in the hope that new scenes and a change of climate might improve his daughter's health, hastened their departure.

Almost immediately on his arrival in the new world he formed an acquaintance with Spikeman, who used every effort to ingratiate himself into his confidence. So successful was Spikeman, that he persuaded Master Dunning to embark a considerable portion of his property in the business wherein Spikeman was engaged, and on the death of Dunning, which happened only six months thereafter, to appoint him the guardian of Eveline. But as the shadows of this world were settling on the eyelids of the dying man, the light of another and a better dawned upon his mind. The differences of opinion which had separated him from the friends of his youth and manhood, and the distinctions of rank, assumed less and less importance. He regarded with pity the sadness of his daughter, and determined that he would be no obstacle in the way of her happiness. He called her and his friend to his bed-side, and after kissing her pale cheek, gave his full consent to her union with Arundel, and made Spikeman promise to favor her wishes in all things. Having thus settled his worldly affairs, Edmund Dunning turned his face to the wall and gave up the ghost.

The tears of Eveline, left an orphan far away from the only spot which she considered her home, flowed bitterly at the loss of her father. He had been a gentle and sweet-tempered man, and an indulgent parent, and she thought of him with a grief and yearning affection, the pain of which the removal of the interdiction to her marriage with one whom she loved, served at first, but in a slight degree, to mitigate. But time had its usual effect. The swollen eyes of poor Eveline at last resumed their brightness; the color returned to her cheeks; her step became lighter, and she looked forward wish pleasure to the time when she should give her hand to one who already had her heart.

But Spikeman was far from sympathizing with her views, nor had he any intention to keep his promise. At the time when he inveigled Edmund Dunning into entrusting property to his hands, his affairs were in an embarrassed condition, and he needed then and now the funds to save him from ruin. And again, hypocrite though he was in some respects, he was not altogether so. A man of violent passions, and unscrupulous in their gratification, deluding himself with the idea that having once tasted the sweets of justification, (as he fancied,) his condition was one of safety, and that the sins which reigned in the members of his body could not reach his soul, he was yet zealous for the faith which he had adopted, and devoted to the interests of the colony. It was to this devotion mainly that he owed his dignity of Assistant. As a Puritan, he was, or at least believed himself to be, opposed to a marriage between Eveline and Arundel on the same principle which had at first influenced her father, and been corrected only by the dawning light of eternity. Shortly before the decease of his friend, Spikeman had frequently, though never in the presence of Eveline, combated Dunning's resolution with which he had been made acquainted, but in vain. Had he dared, he would have resorted to one or more of the elders to exert their potent influence, but this would have been to betray the secret, and in case of their failure, might have placed himself in an unpleasant predicament. He concluded it was better to lock it up in his own breast, and so remain master of his actions and of her destiny, at least till her majority, which lacked two years before attainment. During that time, his circumstances might change—she might decease—no one knew what was in the future.

It is not, therefore, surprising that the Assistant did not write to England to inform Edmund Dunning's relatives of his death; much less that he did not inform Arundel of the fact. Months slowly dragged by, and yet the expecting girl received no word from home. At first Spikeman accounted for it by the length of time required to make the passage between the countries; afterwards by the supposition that the letters might have failed, or intimating that Arundel had probably changed his mind. A cold pang, as if she had been stabbed by an icicle, pierced the bosom of Eveline at this cruel suggestion, and she felt utterly desolute. What, however, frightened and depressed her spirit, only roused the indignation of Prudence Rix, her attendant from England, who even then had a sharper insight into the character of the Assistant than her mistress.

"Hey-day!" she exclaimed; "to think that Master Miles, the handsomest and darlingest young gentleman in Devonshire, and who, if he was only a painter, looked grander and gave away more gold pieces than many a lord she'd known, and who worshipped Mistress Eveline like some pagans she'd heard of did the sun, should think of forgetting her! It was precious nonsense. For her part, if she was Mistress Eveline, she would write to him herself, without letting old vinegar-face know anything about it."

The advice was not thrown away on the young lady, though with an instinctive delicacy she did not follow it literally. Instead of addressing Arundel directly, she wrote to a female friend, and communicated the change in her circumstances, and the relenting of her deceased father, rightly judging that the information would not long remain unknown to her lover. She did this without the knowledge of Spikeman, else it is probable that the letter would never have reached its destination. The event answered her expectations, and with the arrival of the first ship after her epistle was received, she had the gratification of greeting Arundel. But what was her astonishment, when, upon the demand of the young man that her guardian should carry into effect the wishes of his deceased friend, Spikeman denied that any obligation was imposed upon him. He would not admit that there had been any change of opinion in the dying man, but insisted, on the contrary, that he had remained steadfast in his purpose to the last. He affected surprise at the declarations of Eveline, and while not pretending to say what might have taken place in his absence, persisted in asserting that nothing of the kind had occurred in his presence. The young lady was surely in error. The bewilderment occasioned by excessive grief on account of her father's condition, and partiality for her lover, had caused her to mistake the meaning of the former. He could not, however much desirous to please his ward, violate the instructions of his deceased friend.

The remonstrances of Arundel, and gentle expostulations and entreaties of Eveline, were without effect; and when once the young man, in a moment of anger, threatened Spikeman with an appeal to justice and punishment by the government in England, the latter grimly sneered at his threats, and bade him beware lest he himself might be sent, as a malcontent, out of the country. It was, indeed, far more probable that such would be the result of Arundel's persistency, than that he should succeed in carrying off his mistress; and, blinded as he was by love, he could not conceal from himself the danger. To this was to be added another peril, which the Assistant, in one of their conversations, had hinted at, and of which we have also made mention, viz: that he might incur the punishment provided for those who paid court to maidens without the consent of the guardian or magistrate.

But the young couple had, besides Prudence, a powerful friend, Whose kind heart pitied their misfortunes, and by whose means, assisted by the faithful serving-maid, they had many stolen meetings, unknown to their persecutor, and this was no other than dame Spikeman herself. Destitute of children, she had been early attracted by the beautiful orphan, for whom she soon learned to feel the affection of a mother. Into her tender bosom the unprotected girl poured her griefs, and always met with sympathy and good counsel. At first, the good dame attempted to alter the determination of her husband, but finding her efforts in vain, she finally abandoned them, and contented herself with favoring the lovers by every means in her power, without his knowledge, trusting to the chapter of accidents for the result. Perhaps a few pieces of coin, distributed by Arundel now and then among the servants, contributed to preserve the knowledge of their meetings from the Assistant, who, whatever he might suspect, found it difficult, engaged in his business, to detect them.

While we have been making this tedious but necessary explanation, the young man has had time to reach the thickest part of the forest, lying midway betwixt the residence of the knight and his place of destination. He followed a narrow path made originally by the Indians, as they traversed the woods in the manner peculiar to themselves, known by the name of Indian file, now skirting the edge of a morass, now penetrating through a thick undergrowth, and now walking in more open spaces and under the shade of enormous trees.

Arundel, as he walked along with his piece in his hand, had kept watchfully looking round to discern any game within range, when, as he reached one of these open spaces, his eyes fell upon a dark object crouched upon a lower limb of a tree immediately over the path before him, and he instantly recognised the animal as the cougar or American panther. It is the habit of the creature thus to conceal itself in trees, waiting till its prey passes along, when, with one bound, it springs upon its back, and quickly succeeds, by its own weight, and by tearing the veins and arteries of the neck, in bringing it to the ground.

The youth stopped, and gazed upon the motionless beast, whose half-shut eyes he could see winking at him. He lay extended upon the limb, his forward feet spread out at full length, on which rested his small round head, with little ears falling back almost flat, his hind legs drawn up under his body, and his flexible tail hanging a short distance beneath the bough. The dark reddish color of the hair of his skin, dashed with blackish tints, harmonized and blended well with the hue of the bark, so that at a distance, to an unpracticed eye, he appeared like a huge excrescence on the tree, or a large butt of a branch that had lodged in its fall.

The young man did not hesitate what to do. He had come prepared for meeting with wild animals, and felt too much confidence in himself to fear the encounter. He approached so as to be just without reach of the spring of the creature, and levelling his piece, while he could see the cougar shut its eyes and cling closer to the limb, fired. The sound of the gun rang through the ancient forest, and in an instant the beast, jumping from the limb, fell at his feet. So sudden was this, that Arundel had hardly time to withdraw the weapon from his shoulder, before the animal had made the spring. The first impulse of the youth on finding the ferocious brute thus near, was to club his gun and strike it on the head; and now he discovered that it was wounded in one of the forward legs, which hung helplessly down. But the wound, instead of disabling or intimidating, only inflamed the ferocity of the creature. It made repeated attempts to jump upon its foe, which, in spite of the crippled condition of its leg and the loss of blood, Arundel found it difficult to elude. Active as he was, and though he succeeded occasionally in inflicting with his hunting-knife a wound upon the beast, he soon began to suspect that, notwithstanding he had thus far escaped with some inconsiderable scratches, the powers of endurance of the formidable forest denizen were likely to exceed his own. The combat had lasted some time, when, as the young man endeavored to avoid the leap of the panther by jumping to one side, his feet struck against some obstacle and he fell upon his back. In an instant the enraged beast, bleeding from its many wounds, was upon his prostrate person, and his destruction appeared inevitable. With a desperate effort, he struck with the hunting-knife at the panther, who caught it in its mouth, the blade passing between its jaws and inflicting a slight wound at the sides, so slight as not to be felt, and stood with its unhurt paw upon his breast, powerless to do mischief with the other, and glaring with eyes of flame upon its victim. At the instant when the panther, shaking the knife out of its mouth, was about to gripe, with open jaws, the throat of the young man, it suddenly bounded with a cry into the air, almost crushing the breath out of the body of its antagonist, and giving him an opportunity to rise. When Arundel stood upon his feet, he beheld the panther in the agonies of death—an arrow sticking in one eye and an Indian striking it with a tomahawk upon the head, for which great agility and quickness were necessary in order to avoid the paw and teeth of the creature in its dying struggles. These soon became less violent, until, with a shudder, the limbs relaxed, and it lay motionless and harmless,

Arundel now advanced to thank for his timely succor the Indian, who stood quite still looking at him. He was apparently less than thirty years of age, tall and well formed, with a countenance expressive of nobleness and generosity. His attire consisted only of breech-cloth and leggins, with no covering for the upper part of his person—a garb offering fewest obstructions to his movements through the forest. In his hand he held a bow; a quiver full of arrows was slung across his back; the tomahawk was returned to the girdle around his loins, and a knife hung by a deer-sinew from his neck.

"The arrow was well aimed," said Arundel, "that saved my life. How can I thank my brother?" "Waqua is satisfied," replied the Indian, in very imperfect English, which we shall not attempt to imitate.

"You are my preserver," said Arundel, "and shall not find the white man ungrateful."

"Enough," answered the Indian. "Let wild beasts find some other food than men."

"It was a strong hand as well as true aim that sent this arrow," said the young man, drawing the shaft out of the animal's brain, in which the barbed point, coming off, remained behind, "and I must furnish you at least another arrow."